but for all that he is no dude, for he 

 works as hard as anybody to find his own 

 breakfast and enjoys it all the more that 

 he eats his crickets in the sweat of his 

 brow. A simple "chip" is the only re- 

 mark he makes to us or to his compan- 

 ions as he runs along" the cotton rows in 

 quest of food. Ornithologists, however, 

 tell us that up in Canada in his summer 

 home he sings a weak, grasshopper-like 

 song in marked contrast to the musical 

 efforts of his neutral tinted cousin, the 

 vesper. 



The fields of broom sedge are the fa- 

 vorite haunts of one of the birds whose 

 cheerful music and winning ways help 

 to make June in the North "the high tide 

 of the year, when all of life that has 

 ebbed away comes rippling back into 

 each inlet and creek and bay." I never 

 see the meadow lark or hear his cheery 

 whistle that I do not smell the blossom- 

 ing clover and hear the ringing "spink, 

 spank, Spink" of the bobolink or catch 

 the subtle suggestion of strawberries that 

 comes floating to my nostrils on the warm 

 June breeze. In a thirty minutes' walk 

 through the sedge I have flushed as many 

 as two or three hundred of these birds. 

 They are called "field larks" by the ne- 

 groes, who regard them as legitimate 

 game. The lark's whistle — it can hardly 

 be called a song — contains a bit of good 

 advice habitually disregarded by the ne- 

 groes. They interpret it as "laziness 

 will kill you." 



The colored people have an ornithology 

 all their own, in which their own observa- 

 tions are strangely mingled with super- 

 stition. They tell us of two kinds of 

 mockingbirds, "de real" and "de French" 

 varieties. The real mockingbird deserves 

 an article all to himself. His winning 

 ways, playful disposition and ability as 

 a singer give him a place second to none 

 among our American birds. I am pleased 

 to see the spirit of Americanism growing 

 in our literature, that conventional al- 

 lusions to the skylark and the nightingale, 

 birds few of us have ever seen or heard, 

 are becoming rarer and rarer, while those 

 to the robin, the mockingbird and the 

 wood thrush are becoming more fre- 

 quent. The mockingbird, like other sing- 

 ers, does his best during the courting 

 and nesting seasons, but does not con- 



fine his concerts to that joyous time. On 

 warm days in winter he loves to perch 

 in the cedars and give his listeners a 

 sample of what he 'can do, an earnest of 

 the floods of melody that spring will 

 bring. Balmy air, green of cedar and 

 water oak and bird music disarrange our 

 mental almanac. Even the nodding nar- 

 cissus contributes to the illusion that it is 

 not February, but May. 



The "French mockingbird" is no 

 mockingbird at all, but the logger-headed 

 shrike, or butcher bird. Like some peo- 

 ple, he tries to occupy a front seat, even 

 if his music wins for him one of the low- 

 est seats of the choir. A beanpole in the 

 garden, the topmost wire of the fence and 

 the top of a solitary shrub or tree are 

 alike acceptable to him, for it's all one to 

 him if he gets to see all that is going on 

 in his little world. No doubt he does 

 do mischief during the nesting season, 

 when eggs or tender nestlings are easier 

 to find or more acceptable to his fastidi- 

 ous palate than the mice and insects 

 which compose his winter diet. Just now 

 he is a most pleasing bit of decided color, 

 black, white and blue-gray, very refresh- 

 ing to the eye, amid the browns and 

 grays of last year's vegetation. 



When a cold wave comes, what a scur- 

 rying takes place ! Each winter visitor 

 packs his grip and strikes for the nearest 

 shelter, be it canebrake or swampy jun- 

 gle, where tall grass and cat-tails above, 

 briars and water below, make a retreat 

 impregnable to assault from the enemy 

 flying through the air or creeping along 

 the ground. If the cold wave continues 

 until the ground freezes the birds suffer. 

 At such times half-starved robins gorge 

 themselves on the berries of the China 

 tree (Melia azederach) and have a gen- 

 eral "drunk." They never eat many of 

 the berries unless they are the only pro- 

 visions obtainable, unless driven to it by 

 stress of the weather, an excuse for 

 drunks that cannot always be truthfully 

 given by the lords of creation. While 

 the sillv birds are sitting around trying 

 to throw off the effects of their debauch 

 an enemy comes upon the scene. The ne- 

 groes take advantage of the robin's dis- 

 ability to manage his own affairs and 

 feast high on roast robin, fried robin, 

 stewed robin, etc., much to the detriment 



